


Untitled ER AU

by kisahawklin



Series: Unfinished and discontinued fic [25]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Doctor/Patient, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-27 20:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisahawklin/pseuds/kisahawklin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney comes in as a trauma blue on John's shift in the ER.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled ER AU

**Author's Note:**

> I started this for NaNo waaaay back - 2007! And then spent 5 years hacking it apart and piecing it back together. It is unfortunately never going to happen. Written because I worked in an ER - the opening is about as accurate as AUs get.

John looks over his shoulder as the phone rings. Laura answers it before it even finishes its first ring, her curt greeting a sign that this is the number you dial if you know where to call.

"ER, this is Laura." Cadman smiles at whoever is on the other end of the line. "Amelia, I – "

John takes his feet off his desk as her face goes pale and she grabs a pad of scrap paper and a pen, hurriedly taking notes. He stands up and looks over her shoulder.

_TB_  
40 yo M  
coded – RONON  
s. beaten  
wet/hypotherm (harbor)  
ETA 3 min 

John starts calling orders to his charge nurse – Parrish, today – and makes a mental note to ask Ronon what the hell he was doing in the bay at five in the morning. "Crash cart, Bair Hugger, fluid warmer," John recites, and Parrish nods at him until he stops talking and then goes to prep the trauma room, calling for another nurse and paramedic to accompany him. John turns on Laura, waiting for her to finish dialing the pagers so he can give her orders. The announcement sounds overhead, too loud in the quiet of the early morning.

_"Trauma Blue, ground, ETA 3 minutes."_

"I want – " Before he can even get the orders out, _Laura_ is telling _him_ , typing them in furiously at the same time.

"Trauma labs, ETOH, pan scan, portable chest x-ray, you want a tox screen?" she asks, holding a finger up as the phone rings and she picks it up and goes into her spiel without even her to-the-point greeting.

"Forty year old male, pulled out of the inner harbor, hypothermic and severely beaten, he's coded and Ronon's working on him in the back of Amelia's car. They'll be here in about a minute." She makes a note on her pad. _Kavanagh ETA 30 minutes._

John taps Laura's shoulder to get her attention. Kavanagh is _not_ going to wander in here half an hour after they've been working a guy that's been fished out of the Chesapeake bay. "Dr. Sheppard would like to speak to you, Dr. Kavanagh." She hands the phone over to John and types in the tox screen, handing the labels to the phlebotomist running in from the ICU. 

"Kavanagh, get your ass down here. I know damn well you can throw on some scrubs, get in your overpriced SUV, and show up in this ER in ten minutes."

 _"Sheppard, this guy's not going to resuscitate, so why don't you give me a page_ if _you manage to get a pulse on him."_ That irritating _fuck_. He doesn't have time for this. Parrish and a paramedic are hauling a trauma cart out to the garage and Laura's hopped out of her seat to hit the button that opens the garage door. 

"Kavanagh, you're the trauma surgeon on call. Be here in ten minutes, or I'll be having a chat with your partners in the morning." He hangs up, missing the cradle by a long shot and relying on Laura to soothe ruffled feathers and cajole Kavanagh into showing up if he calls back. 

Ronon's pulling the cart and the ER paramedic has taken over compressions. Parrish has bagged him and the other nurse is peeling back the wet blankets from the guy's bluish-tinged skin. It's a dangerous thing, hope, and the ER has tried to beat out of him, but he can't seem to suppress it as he watches the team work. They can get this guy back. John can feel it. 

Ronon steps aside to give John a quick report, and Amelia takes over his place in the lineup. 

"Was out for a run, saw him floating face down in the harbor. Hauled him out and started compressions. Looks like a couple of cracked ribs, pupils sluggish, plenty of contusions and lacerations. This guy got the crap beat out of him." Ronon keeps pace with John as he follows the gurney into the trauma room. John nods his thanks and grabs the paddles from the crash cart. He can feel the adrenaline kick-start his heart like he's the one being shocked as he places the paddles on the trauma's blue-skinned chest.

"Clear!" he calls, and the staff steps back with their hands up. Parrish has to pull Amelia away from the cart. The first jolt doesn't do much and the team resumes compressions and bagging. He waits for the paramedic and nurse to put a line in each arm and Parrish to administer the milligram of Atropine while the paddles recharge, the blood thumping heavily in his ears.

"Clear!" he shouts again, his voice hoarse from adrenaline. Sometimes he thinks it's a little perverted, that this is the best part of his job, when someone is seriously fucked up, but then – there it is! The pulse starts, a little wobbly at first, but firming up into a respectable rhythm within three or four beats. "Christ," he whispers. The pharmacist cheers – she's new – and Ronon puts a calming hand on his shoulder.

"Ronon," John says. "Good call." He watches his staff set up the fluid warmer, letting his adrenaline fade a little before starting the trauma assessment. "What made you code him instead of calling the coroner?"

Ronon shrugs. "Mammalian diving reflex?" he says, but Johns knows that the truth is he's a doctor through and through; _it's what we do_. John nods, and puts his hands on the patient's skull.

"Skull okay, edema on the parietal lobe, a nice goose egg there, no facial breaks, six centimeter laceration over the zygomatic arch, no DVT, yeah – tube him," John says to the paramedic's unspoken question of holding the laryngoscope and tube up. The paramedic slides the tube in, no resistance, and they hook him up to a ventilator, letting the machine inflate his lungs for him.

John palpates the patient's arms and chest ("some crepitus on the left eighth and ninth ribs"), debating what to call him in his mind as he ticks off the secondary survey for the nurse who's recording the trauma. "How about Jeff? You think this guy looks like a Jeff?"

Kavanagh walks in, tying his trauma gown behind him, and can't seem to help a snide comment. "How about ‘guy that'll die of complications tomorrow instead of guy that died from drowning tonight'?" Ronon takes a step forward and John looks up fast enough to catch Ronon's eye, and shakes his head minutely.

"Well, since he _is_ alive at the moment, I say we finish the trauma assessment. Would you like to take over? I was just noting his priapism." Kavanagh's eyebrows shoot up and John grins. "I mean, lack thereof. Pupils are sluggish, but the skull is intact." John turns around, looking for the x-ray techs. "Left hand x-ray, I think there's a couple of broken fingers," John says, locating the two radiology techs lounging behind the x-ray machine. "Then you can do the chest."

Kavanagh finishes the trauma assessment with no more injuries except contusions and lacerations, a good long one on his thigh that'll take at least fifteen stitches. There's a shoe-print bruise on his back too, and John's heart goes out to this guy. He got beat up pretty badly before he ended up in the bay. He steps out, calling to Cadman from the door. "How soon will CT be ready for us?"

"They're getting a head off the table," Laura says, shrugging an apology at John. "Five minutes, maybe?"

"All right," John says. "Add cardiac enzymes and two sets of cultures, since we fished him out of the bay." Laura nods and turns around to her computer. "You should probably get cleaned up too," he says to Ronon, who he's just now noticed is dripping wet. "If you went in after him, you should probably get blood cultures too. The inner harbor is filthy."

"They've been working on cleaning up the Chesapeake Bay," Ronon says, though he turns around and heads to the decontamination showers in the garage.

"Laura, get him some scrubs, will you?" John calls and Laura grins wickedly. 

"Get them to him personally," she says with a wink. 

John waves her off and steps back into the trauma room, watching the team work together to push warm fluids into the patient and assist the x-ray techs with their films. They get a couple of good shots of the left hand. Two fingers are broken at the second phalange, one of his meta-carpals, too. 

Jeff starts to move, and maybe moan, though between the noise of the room and the tube down his throat, John can't be sure. John moves in to stand next to the cart, taking in the patient's movements – limited to his face and hands – and watches the heart and pulse ox monitors. "What's the temp on this guy?" John asks.

"Came in at eighty-eight," Parrish tells him, "and he's up to ninety-one now." 

The patient's hand trembles and lifts off the cart. His eyes open too, and John smiles, trying to reassure him and remove the confusion and fear that he's wearing so clearly in those bright blue eyes. Before John can order a sedative, the patient has a surprisingly firm grip on his gown and the lead vest underneath, and pulls John down. John yanks his lead out of the patient's hand at the same moment he can hear Kavanagh calling frantically for Narcan. He puts a firm hand on Jeff's forearm and the blue eyes keep his until they start to droop and finally close.

John knows his part in this trauma is basically over. He'll stick around to watch, but for someone who wasn't interested in the case, Kavanagh's being a pushy bastard and taking over. Fair enough, John figures. If there are internal injuries, it'll be Kavanagh fixing them up. 

Ronon comes to stand next to John, bumping his shoulder into John's as a show of support. John appreciates the gesture, and looks over at the man, raising an eyebrow and tipping his head in Amelia's direction. Every unmarried doc (and several of the married ones) have been trying to hook up with her since she started at the hospital two years ago. Ronon smiles, a great big toothy grin, and John can't help but grin back.

"You working today?" John asks.

"Yeah," Ronon says, "at seven. I'll crash in the doc's pad for a couple of hours." Ronon glances at Amelia, who has insinuated herself into the trauma with no complaint from Parrish. She's cleaning Jeff's skin, and John is oddly touched by the gesture. 

"Amelia's on too?" John asks, though he makes it a statement. He knows she's working days for Ronon's entire run. Ronon nods, not bothering to waste any breath on a question that doesn't need to be answered.

Kavanagh bosses the team around, and they mobilize, maneuvering the gurney into the hallway and down to CT. Kavanagh walks behind, leisurely, like he has all day to diagnose fatal injuries. John waves goodbye to Jeff and dumps his lead and gown and goggles, taking up a position behind Laura, who has brought out another bag of candy to dump in the communal dish that sits next to her on the desk. 

"Snickers, my favorite," John says, and snags two of the mini candy bars. Everyone that isn't in CT with the trauma hovers around the candy dish, trying to get rid of the excess adrenaline through sugar consumption. John unwraps the first Snickers and he's halfway bent to sitting before Laura's voice stops him.

"Don't sit yet," Laura says, complete with admonishing finger. "You've got a belly pain in room five –" John groans "– and the cops brought in a drunk. He's in room eight."

"A legal?" John asks.

"Nope," Cadman says, smirking. "He blew a zero, but seems drunk as a skunk. Officer Lorne mentioned something about suicide, too."

"Well, at least it's Lorne," John says. "Tell him to sit tight, I have to get this belly pain started or I'll be turning it over to Cam when he gets in."

***

When John gets out of room five, Laura tells him that the trauma has a head bleed, and that she's paged Dr. Carter.

"Shit," John says, and sits down at the radiology monitors to pull up the brain scans. There's plenty of blood crowding the brain, but it's not on the brain stem yet, so that's good. Carter calls while he's looking at the scans, and after Laura gives her the standard spiel. She looks back at him and he shakes his head. There's nothing to say. Carter can see the scans for herself when she gets in.

"She'll be here in half an hour," Laura says, and turns back to her game of Bejeweled. 

John figures he might as well get to room eight before Carter shows up, and logs in to read the chart. Laura said "suicidal," but the triage says "apocalyptic." He makes note of it on a clipboard and gets up to talk to the officer who brought him in.

"Officer Lorne," John says, offering his hand. Evan shakes it and slaps him on the shoulder. "What have we got here?" John asks.

"He was wandering around Charles Center, spouting nonsense. Gave him a breathalyzer, but he was clean. He won't stop talking, but I can't get him to give me a name or address. He doesn't have any ID, and he keeps telling me the world is going to end sometime next week."

"Violent?" John asks, making notes on his clipboard. 

"Not so far," Lorne answers. "You're looking a little ragged, though, you want some coffee before you do this?"

John feels tired all the way down to his bones. "Yeah, I guess I do. I hate this part of the night shift. I'm fine right up until sunrise."

Lorne walks behind the desk and pours two cups of coffee, sprinkling sugar into John's and pouring two little creamers into his own. John turns away from him and looks at the guy in room eight. He's yelling at the wall, gesturing grandly and pointing every other sentence. John sighs, rubbing his eyes, and when he looks up, Lorne is holding out a Dixie cup of coffee.

"Two sugars," Lorne says. "Unless you decided to try the Atkins diet again."

"I was reducing my refined sugar intake," John says automatically, turning to look at the guy in room eight again. Larry. He definitely looks like a Larry.

***

When John finally extricates himself from Larry's thrilling rendition of the apocalypse (including toxic toothpaste and giant skydiving spears of asparagus), he lets Lorne know it'll be a psych admit and he can go back out and make the streets safe again.

He debates restraints and figures they're unnecessary, and decides he'll wait to get the alcohol and tox screen back before he gives any drugs. "Get security to cover room eight so Lorne can get out of here, and page psych on call when you get the results from the bloodwork," John tells Laura, and she makes a note of it on one of her scratch pads.

As Lorne is about to walk out the door, it hits John that the trauma wasn't reported to the police. "Wait," John calls after Lorne, and Lorne turns around with a grin. 

"Yeah, doc?" 

"We got a trauma in a couple of hours ago," John says, "and I think it's probably something the police should be in on. Beating, dumped into the bay…"

"Holy crap," Lorne says, and takes out his notebook. "Are they going to make it?"

"I don't know," John says, though he's got a good feeling about Jeff. "Got the shit kicked out of him, though."

"And dumped into the bay? So, attempted homicide, then?"

The words shock John. Why hadn't he thought of this as a crime earlier? "Of course," he says, more to himself than to Lorne. "Ronon and Amelia brought the guy in – he didn't come by ambulance. Usually the cops know about this stuff _before_ we do."

"Right," Lorne says in his _get on with it_ voice.

"What else do you need from me?" John asks. "Medically, he's critical. He's got an epidural hematoma. Not too big, but they're always bad news. Couple of cracked ribs, couple of broken fingers on his left hand."

"You said Ronon and Amelia brought him in?" Lorne asks, taking down notes. 

"Yeah," John answers.

"Where is he now?" Lorne asks, and John realizes he doesn't know.

"He's in trauma bay two, Evan," Laura answers, cheerfully interrupting. "Got back from CT while you two were in room eight." 

"Thanks," John says. "We can take a look, if you like."

"No thanks," Lorne says, and John grins. Lorne's always been squeamish about broken bones, especially in the hands.

"I'm going to go check on him, unless you need anything else from me?" 

Lorne shakes his head, still writing in his notebook and John heads into the trauma room to check on Jeff. It's just Parrish now, cleaning, and keeping an eye on the patient. 

"Oh, Dr. Sheppard," Parrish says, "if you're going to be here a while, do you mind if I get some supplies to restock?"

"Sure thing," John says, and appraises Jeff while he sleeps not-so-peacefully. John wanders over to the gurney and puts a hand on Jeff's arm. Jeff simultaneously stirs and calms at the touch. His twitchy unconscious movements stop, but he raises his hand from the blanket. It's expectant, like a flycatcher waiting for its prey. John squeezes and lets go, and Jeff's hand droops back down onto the blanket. 

John's thinking up a new name for Jeff (since it's abundantly clear from his moment of lucidity that he is _not_ a Jeff) when Carter comes in.

"So," Sam says, "we're going to have to put a hole in his skull."

"Looks like it," John says, "unless you've got a better idea."

"Anything I should know?" Sam asks, and John has a knee-jerk reaction to keep the moment of consciousness to himself.

"He had a lucid interval earlier tonight, during the assessment."

Sam nods, frowning. "That's a good sign."

"I gave him some more Narcan, so he's down for a little while." At least, John thinks so. He really shouldn't have been conscious considering he already had Narcan in his system from the last time. "You going to do the procedure in the ER?"

"No," Sam says, and John nods. It's a good call. "Laura's calling in the surgery team. It's not progressing too quickly, and I'd like to give him a little more time to get his temperature up those last couple of degrees. Don't want to risk clots."

John hums his agreement. Carter looks the patient over, and John debates a new name for him. William, maybe. John can imagine this guy as a Billy when he was a kid.

***

John doesn't think much about the trauma guy again until he's heading in to work the next evening. _Wonder if he lasted the night_ , he thinks as he turns into the parking garage. He's stopped by what can only be a pediatric nurse, judging by the bright and mismatched scrubs, slowly crossing the lane. John can't think of any male peds nurses, though, and when he takes a closer look, he can see a cast on the guy's left hand and what looks like a bandage peeking out from under the knit hat he's got pulled down over his eyes.

"Hey," he calls, because this guy is moving slower than he ought to. The guy turns to look at him, and John blinks a couple of times because…

"Jeff!" he calls, though he'll eat Jeff's hat if that's really his name. "I don't think you should be leaving just yet!" John checks his rearview mirror to be sure he's not holding up traffic, pulls the parking brake, and gets out to make sure Jeff knows he means business.

"Hey," he calls again, and Jeff starts to mosey a little quicker. He's still slower than an arthritic eighty-year-old, though, so John gets between him and the next row of cars and puts a hand on his upper arm. 

That ticks the guy off, because he pulls his arm out of John's grip and gives him a glare that John feels certain would make him flinch if it wasn't coming from a guy in Spongebob scrubs.

"I'm pretty sure you haven't been discharged, AMA or otherwise, so why don't we get you back inside?" 

"I don't have time to explain," Jeff says, sidling along John's car, trying to get around him. John pins him against the driver's side door, and he's wondering exactly how forcefully he can enforce his diagnosis when a black SUV pulls up behind him and honks its horn.

John waves and smiles, trying to indicate that he's doing his best, but the patient takes that moment to flail wildly, presumably in an attempt to get John to back off.

"People are trying to kill me," Jeff says, his arms thrown wide, and even though John knows it's probably true, he can't help a laugh. It sounds so melodramatic. "I have to get out of here before they come back."

"Have you even talked to the police yet?" John asks, and before he can finish the thought, the SUV honks again. He looks over and the two guys in the front seat seem to be having some sort of argument, and they're pointing at John and the trauma guy.

"Listen, Jeff, these guys are about to ram me, could – "

"Why do you keep calling me Jeff?" Jeff asks, and before John can answer the question, Jeff is yelling. "Gun! Gun!" 

Two loud _cracks_ reverberate through the parking structure, and John reacts without thinking, going for the door of his car. "Get in!" he shouts, even as he's shoving Jeff in and throwing himself after him. He slams the car in gear and stomps the gas pedal to the floor, pulling the door shut as the tires squeal. 

For a guy with a hole in his head, Jeff is surprisingly deft. He's slumping down in his seat, but somehow he manages to get the seatbelt around himself and hook it in. John doesn't bother with his, pulling down the parking brake and gunning it. 

He makes the three turns it takes to get out of the parking garage, skipping through the tollbooth on the tail of the last person to pay. John's thankful his baby is low to the ground as the arm of the gate closes when he's halfway through. The SUV follows and the arm breaks off, splintering without giving even the slightest resistance. 

John concentrates, narrowing his focus at the same time as his peripheral vision opens up, and he hooks a right onto Baltimore street, instinct taking over as he drives, his hands tight on the wheel.

He turns onto Paca street going the wrong way, dodging the cars for the half block it takes to get him in the tight alley so he can turn right onto Eutaw. The tight turns are harder for the SUV, so John gains a little distance until he turns onto Pratt street, where the lights are timed and the traffic is moving along. 

The SUV catches up to him, and John half-grins at Jeff. "Hold on," he says – unnecessarily, since Jeff is boxed in as tightly as he can be in the front seat, using his arms and legs to brace himself. 

John waits until the SUV moves into the next lane, checks the rearview mirror, and pulls up on the hand brake, letting the SUV shoot past him as he controls the curve of his car enough to take the right onto Light street. "Ha!" John shouts, gleeful. Unless the SUV is willing to turn around on a one-way street, there's not a chance in hell they'll catch up with him now.

Jeff pulls himself up in the seat and looks around before taking a deep breath and complaining about it.

"Damn it, broken ribs," he says, running his hands down his sides. "Ow, hand," he says, resting the hand in the cast on his thigh. "Not that I don't appreciate your reckless driving back there, but where exactly are we going?"

John's on I-395, changing lanes to get on I-95 south, figuring he has the next several exits to figure out how to get back into the city if he has to. "Don't know," John answers. "Just trying to get away from those guys at the highest speed possible. That means highway."

Jeff looks up at the road signs and snaps the fingers on his good hand. "Oh wait, yes! Go to the airport!" he says, and John chafes at the order. 

"How about the hospital," John says, pasting on his most soothing tone of voice. "You're in no condition to be traveling."

"Did you miss the part where those guys _shot at me_?" Jeff asks.

"They shot at me too," John says, annoyed. 

"I'm not going back to the hospital to make it easier for them to find me," Jeff says, as if the matter is settled. "And we need to ditch this car."

"What do you mean, ditch my car?" John asks, annoyance clawing at him. "I am not leaving this car anywhere. And we're not done talking about your medical care, either."

"I think the highest thing on the list of my medical priorities is _staying alive_. And I'm not saying you should leave your car on some random street. You can leave it in long term parking. They have cameras and security people, that sort of thing." 

_He thinks he's being reasonable_ , John thinks. "You're unbelievable, Jeff."

"Stop calling me that. My name is Rodney. Rodney McKay." His eyes slide to the side, and John can see him note the exit for the airport. John sighs.

"Fine. McKay." John says, foregoing his own introduction. He doesn't think McKay'd notice anyway. "If you think I'm going to leave my car in long term parking and let a patient with a hole in his head climb onto an airplane, you have another thing coming."

"I'm not going to get on an airplane – I don't have any ID," McKay says, and John looks over at him. He's got some color now and he seems to be moving better than he was when he was crossing the parking garage. Adrenaline is a hell of a kick in the pants. They'll both be coming down any time now, though, and John really needs to get this guy to a hospital. He's considering the merits of the hospitals on the west side of town when McKay speaks again. "I don't think it will take those guys long to track down a guy with a cherry red sports car and hospital plates. Once they do, you can bet they'll come after you."

John hasn't considered that, and he has a tough time believing it. The events of the last ten minutes should really be enough to convince him, but somehow it all feels so surreal. McKay's been watching him as he thinks about it, and when he glances sideways, McKay catches his eye and speaks softly, leaning in like he's telling John a secret.

"Drive me to Colorado," McKay says, and John stares for half a second before he puts his eyes back on the highway. "I'm not kidding. I need to get to Colorado and I can't fly, and I have no money or ID to drive myself."

"No," John says, because this idea is just _bonkers_ , he should be driving McKay to the nearest hospital, now that they've lost their tail. He's trying to figure out the best hospital to get him to - it has to be close and he'd be best off if there was a good neuro unit. Somewhere Carter had privileges would be best, but he has no idea where that might be. "You need medical care - you need to be in a hospital, and I'm just trying to figure out where to take you."

"I'm not going back to the hospital," McKay says, and attempts to cross his arms. It looks clunky with the cast on his hand, but he still manages to radiate 'pissed off' pretty well. "Did you miss the guys trying to kill me? They'll find me, it's what they do."

"What, they were assassins?" John asks, grinning because he can't help it. McKay looks even more pissed off. "They _were_ assassins?"

McKay nods once, forcefully, then screws his eyes shut and puts his good hand to his head.

"I thought assassins would be better at actually killing people," John says. He's thankful they weren't because the last thing he wants to be is collateral damage, but this whole situation is so far-fetched he doesn't know what to make of it anymore.

"We surprised them. They expected me to be in my room, and I'm pretty sure they hadn't expected your driving back there."

John nods, slowly. "You need serious medical care and drugs. You can't just go on a twelve hour road trip."

"Twenty seven hours," McKay says. "Give or take. And you're a doctor. You can get drugs and give me medical care. I'll pay you some ridiculous amount of money when we get to Colorado."

"I don't want your money," John huffs. "And the medical care you need includes lots of rest and IV drugs, and that's not something I can just write a script for at a pharmacy."

"Okay, so we'll sneak into a hospital," McKay says, and John tightens his hands on the steering wheel until his fingers hurt.

"First of all, I'm supposed to be working -" John looks at the clock. He's already fifteen minutes late. "Shit."

He fumbles his phone out of the pocket of his jacket and hands it over to McKay. "Speed dial one," he says, looking for the next exit. It's too far away, so he switches lanes as fast as he can and pulls over on the shoulder while McKay dials.

"Hello?" McKay says, and John puts the car in park and holds his hand out for the phone. 

_"ER, this is Karla."_

"Hey Karla, it's John. Is Suzette right there?" 

_"Sure, hang on a minute."_

_"Sheppard, you better have a pretty good excuse,"_ Suzette says, and John snorts. He really does have a good excuse. McKay shakes his head and puts his fingers over his lips. McKay doesn't really look like the sort to be a spy, but it's the first thing that crosses John's mind with all the guns and secrecy and car chases. 

"Yeah, I'm not going to make it in. And I can't call anybody. It's bad, and I can't talk, I just needed to let you know."

_"Aw, shit, really? The place is crazy tonight, there's a GSW in one and two belly pains, a broken foot and, aw, shit, here's the cops bringing in a 72 hour hold."_

"I'm really sorry," John says, grimacing. Normally he'd love to have a night like that. "Can you call Scott? He owes me one on short notice. Or maybe Katy? She's usually available."

_"I'll take care of it. This your last night of the run?"_

"Yeah," John answers. "Small favors."

 _"Don't worry about it,"_ Suzette says, unusually subdued. Gossip travels fast, maybe they heard about the shots fired in the parking garage. _"Just be safe."_

"I will. Thanks, Suzette, I really appreciate it."

_"Well, now you owe me one. And I'll use it up next time we get Henry Schmitt in, wait and see."_

"I know you will," John says, laughing. "Talk to you later." He hangs up and breathes a sigh of relief. One thing done.

"Hey, can I use that?" Rodney asks. John hands over his phone. He should've thought of it, McKay can call someone to pick him up –

"What are you doing?!" John shouts as his phone goes flying out the window. "That's my entire life!"

"No," McKay says, "this is your entire life." He holds up the SIM card. "And you can have it back when you're free of me and I'm not worried you're going to get killed."

John sputters, completely lost for what to say. 

"I understand if you don't want to drive me to Colorado. I get it. Just loan me enough money to get a train ticket, a gun, and some food. I'll pay you back when I get there."

"I am not putting a man with a hole in his head on a train!" John says, "I am taking you to a hospital."

"They'll track me down just as easily, now that they know I'm alive," Rodney says. "My only choice is to get to Colorado."

"What the hell is in Colorado?"

"Cheyenne Mountain." McKay tries to cross his arms clumsily, the cast on his hand not cooperating.

***

McKay looks sideways at him. "I hadn't thought about it, honestly. I'm still in shock from almost being killed!"

"Technically, you were killed," John says, and he knows it's just mean to say it, the look on McKay's face is utter horror. "But I saved your life - well, me and Ronon, mostly. Some electricity was involved, and a few drugs."

"God complex much?" McKay asks, but he's gone very pale and doesn't talk for a while. John keeps driving

* * *

**Cut Scenes** (cut for tons of different reasons, from non-authenticity to changes as canon developed)

The trauma returns to the ER as John steps out of room five, waving the clipboard in front of his face to get rid of the smell. “Anything?” John asks, though he knows the answer is no because Kavanaugh looks ready to kill. 

“Concussion. For as bad as this guy looked, he’ll be ready to be discharged the day after tomorrow.” Kavanaugh slinks off to his office to dictate. Jeff comes back down the hall shortly after Kavanaugh, and John gives Biro a thumbs up before sitting in front of the radiology monitors to pull up the cat scans. Not that he doesn’t trust Kavanaugh’s expert opinion, but he’d really like to see the results himself. 

Ronon’s sitting at the spare desk (it had been so slow around midnight John had sent Marianne home to her cats) and glancing at the scans from a distance. “Lucky bastard.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” John answers. “No ID on him? Nothing?” 

Ronon shakes his head. “No clothes. He was stripped before he went swimming. Well,” he amends, “that or the bay melted the clothes right off him.”

John laughs and scrubs his hands over his face. Five am always was deadly for him. “Since you’re here, you might as well admit the guy. No use making the hospitalist on duty come down when you’re starting in a couple of hours.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ronon answers. “I’m going to shower and grab some scrubs. I’ll be back in half an hour.” Laura gives him a thumbs up and makes a note on another pad of scrap paper. 

“You want a neuro consult?” she asks. “I know it’s just a concussion, but…” 

John thinks on it, and decides it depends on who’s on call. “Who is it tonight?” 

“O’Neill,” Laura answers, and puts a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

“Right,” John says. “Who’s on tomorrow?”

“Carter,” Laura says, and nods at him.

“Fine,” John says. “Wait until seven and then page Carter. She can see him on the floor. Dex’s admitting.” 

********

Jeff is moving again, and John decides it’s probably time to extubate him. He calls Laura and tells her to page the RT.

John wanders over to the gurney and puts a hand on Jeff’s arm. He’s a big proponent of ‘the healing touch’ though he’d never say so out loud. _”People need people,”_ his Grammy used to say, and he believes it. Jeff simultaneously stirs and calms at the touch. His twitchy unconscious movements stop, but he raises his hand from the blanket. It’s expectant, like [a flycatcher waiting for its prey]. John slides his hand down Jeff’s arm, stopping just short of linking their hands. 

The patient opens his eyes then, and the confusion from earlier is gone. This guy knows where he is, and what’s happened to him, and doesn’t seem to be particularly bothered by the tube in his throat except that he’s trying to talk around it. 

The patient gives John’s wrist a squeeze before he goes straight for the tube. John’s got great reflexes, though, so he grabs the guy’s hands before he can do something stupid. “Don’t,” he says, and the patient looks at him angrily. “I’ll get it out,” John says, more to appease the anger than because it’s the truth. “You’ll hurt yourself if you pull it yourself. Hell, I’ll hurt you if I pull it out while you’re conscious.”

********

The patient opens his eyes then, and the confusion from earlier is gone. This guy knows where he is, and what's happened to him, and doesn't seem to be particularly bothered by the tube in his throat except that he's trying to talk around it. 

Jeff gives John's wrist a squeeze before he lets go and his hands head straight for the tube. John reaches out quickly, grabbing the guy's hands before he can do something stupid. "Don't," he says, and the patient looks at him angrily. "I'll get it out," John says, to appease the guy's anger because it's definitely not the truth. "You'll hurt yourself if you pull it yourself. Hell, I'll hurt you if I pull it out while you're conscious."

That seems to settle him down, and luckily Parrish comes back with an armful of supplies. His eyes go wide as she sees that the patient is conscious and John speaks before he can say something that will spook the already jumpy patient.

"We're going to extubate," John says, and nods reassuringly at nurse Parrish. He turns around and holds the patient's gaze. "Parrish's going to administer some Narcan, to help you relax, so we don't injure your throat or vocal cords," John says, with his most charming delivery. The patient narrows his eyes at John like he knows John's lying, but it doesn't matter because Parrish really is a good nurse, and gave the Narcan in the half a minute John had the patient distracted. The patient's eyes slip closed, but not before giving John a dirty look.

"Thanks," John says. 

"You're welcome," Parrish says, looking at him slightly starry-eyed. "You're really good at that. Some people don't come off as trustworthy, but you definitely do."

"Thanks," John says again, and when he doesn't comment further, Parrish goes back to restocking the trauma room.

*******

The anger is back, but the patient looks calmer. He snaps his fingers and makes motions like he’s writing. John nods and grabs some scrap paper and a pen from the podium. 

_I need to get out of here._

It’s more coherent than someone with a concussion has any right to be, not to mention the fact that he should still be sleeping off the effects of the Narcan. 

“You’re safe here,” John says, and there’s a glimmer of something that looks like panic in his eyes. “Write your name,” John says on a whim, because now that the guy is awake and moving, he’s clearly not a Jeff.

_No._

“Why?”

 _Trying to kill me._ John’s hackles rise. The bruises and cuts stand out on the guy’s pale skin, and he remembers the boot shaped bruise on his back. The patient scribbles something on the pad of paper and holds it up for him to see.

_GET THIS TUBE OUT OF ME._

John nods and goes to the top of the cart. “Relax.” He pulls the tube out, steadily, but faster than he really considers safe because this guy is both scary and convincing. He coughs as the tube clears his mouth, and sits up to get a decent amount of air. As soon as the coughing stops, the guy pulls off the pulse oximeter and the leads from the cardiac monitor.

“Don’t!” John says, but it’s too late. He can hear the uproar from the desk, and he knows half the staff will be running in for a code.

Ronon is the first in line, and he stops dead in the doorway. The next person in line runs right into him, and he stumbles a step into the room. 

“Sheppard?” Ronon asks, and John shrugs. He has no way to explain this.

“Dr. Dex, this is your nameless patient. Jeff, this is Dr. Dex. He’ll be admitting you to the hospital.”

*******

Laura pulls John out of the trauma room with a phone call from the psychiatrist on call. “Who is it?” John asks, and sure enough it’s Kate Heightmeyer. He’s not fond of psychiatrists in general, but Kate in particular makes him cringe. She’s probably the best one he’s ever seen, which would explain why she makes him uncomfortable.

“Hi Kate,” he says, and barrels on before she gets any small talk in. “We’ve got a patient in room eight with apocalyptic delusions and voices. He’s got no alcohol or drugs in his system, but won’t give up his name or address. It’s unclear whether he is unwilling or unable.”

 _”Have you got him on anything?”_ Kate asks.

“No, and no restraints yet, as he’s not violent. We’ve got security outside his room, though.”

 _”I’ll be there in half an hour,”_ Kate says, and John looks at the clock. He’ll be off shift by then, and he intends to steer well clear of her.

********

The patient closes his eyes, frustration radiating off his oddly stiff posture. The RT shows up, and John gives the patient’s shoulder a squeeze before he leaves the room to get a nurse to administer some more Narcan. In the two minutes it takes for him to convey this to Laura, the patient lapses back into unconsciousness and the RT has set up shop. John breathes a sigh of relief, because he really didn’t want to have to do any more interaction with the patient that shouldn’t have been conscious in the first place. 

And now he needs a new name. Seeing this guy awake, even for those few minutes, it’s clear that he’s no Jeff. He debates it while they extubate and settles on William. It’s not quite right, but he likes the possibilities. He can imagine this guy as a Billy when he was little.

Dex comes back at six, freshly showered, and admits the John Doe to the floor with orders and a note about the consult from Carter later in the day. Teyla takes him up before starting her shift in the ICU. John admits the schizophrenic to psych and sends the abdominal pain off for cat scan when the nurses change shift. 

One more hour for him and Cadman, then he can go home and sleep the day away in the bedroom he had fitted with the blackout curtains he bought back when he was in med school. Best money he ever spent. Cadman goes to the cafeteria for breakfast and brings him eggs and bacon, which he eats dutifully, and he manages to get room five admitted (gallstones; she’s scheduled for surgery later in the day) before his shift ends.

He falls into bed when he gets home; it’s one of those mornings where he doesn’t remember most of the drive. He knows he should care more about that. He knows the statistics. Even so, he is too happy to close his drapes, cutting himself off from the world and climbing under the covers blind. 

*******

John slaps the bedside table, searching for the godforsaken [machine] that pulled him out of a dream about flying. He turns the cell phone over and sees that it’s the hospital. He also sees that he’s been asleep for approximately six hours. He flips the phone open and clears his throat before asking, “What?”

“Sheppard,” Ronon’s voice comes over the line. 

“What?” John asks, more annoyed now, because Ronon should know better.

“We need your help with Jeff.”

It takes fully a minute before John can piece the sentence together into something that makes any sense. “The trauma? He’s awake?”

“Yeah,” Ronon answers, “and he practically hid under the covers when I came in the room.”

John laughs, a gravelly sound on this little sleep. “Of course he did. So, what do you need me for?”

“He won’t tell us his name, he won’t talk to us at all.”

John falls back onto his pillows and puts a hand over his eyes. He can almost pretend he’s still asleep. “What do you need me for?”

*******

When John gets in to work that night, Ronon is waiting for him at the desk. Normally John wouldn’t think twice about that; he and Dex hang out from time to time, catch the occasional action flick or play poker. Ronon looks tired, though, and John can count the times he’s seen that on one hand.

“What’s up, buddy?” John says, logging in and taking a look at the status of the ER. Only four rooms, three in various states of care. Slow night.

“I can’t get our patient to tell us his real name. Neither can any of the nurses, not even Esposito.”

John laughs. “He probably doesn’t have insurance. Have you sicced Teyla on him?”

Ronon shakes his head. “Wouldn’t let her in the room. He locked us out. I threatened to break the door down.”

“Wow,” John says, still chuckling. “This guy’s got some surprises up his sleeves.”

“Yeah, well, it’s Angie’s turn to deal with him.” Ronon looks down and pitches his voice lower so that only John can hear him. “Can I borrow your car?” 

“’Course,” John says, and throws his keys. Ronon catches them and tips his head in thanks.

Scott’s on with John and has taken the last patient on the board, so John tells Laura that he’s going to go visit last night’s trauma on the floor. She laughs, tells him that he’s in 554, and flips him a pager. 

*******

And John has had it with trying to guess his name.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, what’s your name?” The guy folds his arms over his chest and sticks his chin out in defiance. “Listen,” John says, trying to sound nonchalant. “I don’t care if you don’t have insurance. I need to call you something, and Jeff just wasn’t working for me.”

“Jeff?” the guy squeaks. “What would make you pick that name?”

“William?” John asks.

*******

Mark shows up fifteen minutes early, to John’s delight. He gives report (neurosurgery admitting the trauma, surgery admitting five, gallbladder removal scheduled for later today, psych admitting room eight) and asks Mark if it’s alright that he takes off. Mark laughs and claps his hand on John’s back. “Of course. You look like hell.”

 _Great,_ John thinks. He smiles and heads out to his car. She’s sleek and fast, a 1996 Porsche 911. It was the first thing he did after his divorce, go out and buy this car. He’s never regretted the decision. He drives home, a little too fast, but he knows where the cops hang out and makes sure he takes an unobserved route home.

*

John goes in to work an hour early. He has the ambitious idea that he might dictate a little and let Mark off a little early, if it’s possible. When he gets to the hospital, though, he ends up asking about the trauma, and finding out that the surgery went fine, he got admitted to the neuro ICU, but was transferred down to the floor by late afternoon. John’s pleased, he likes hearing about traumas that go well; there are typically enough complications to really fuck things up long term for those patients. 

Ronon stops by, giving him a more detailed report on the patient. “He’s doing well, though he hasn’t woken up yet.” That surprises John, but before he can say so, Ronon says, “Well, officially, he hasn’t woken up yet.”

“What the hell does that mean?” John asks. 

“I swear he’s awake,” Ronon says, “but he plays unconscious like a pro.”

“You tried the hand over his face trick?” John asks, and Ronon grins.

“Of course! He smacks himself in the face, every time. Doesn’t react to poking, tickling, nothing.”

“Maybe he’s really unconscious,” John says. The evidence is pretty compelling.

“I don’t think so,” Ronon says. “He’s too still, like he’s listening to us talk.”

“Huh,” John says. “Maybe – “

“Oh,” Ronon interrupts. “A couple of detectives came by earlier. Asked me and Teyla a bunch of questions, took a look at the guy.”

“Yeah, I forgot about reporting it until Lorne came in with a psych admit,” John says. “I told him, and I guess he filed a report or something.”

Teyla materialized at Ronon’s side then, and tugged on his sleeve. “Need a ride?” she asked, and John smiled to watch them together. 

“I better get moving,” John said, excusing himself from their company. “I should relieve Mark, and I think we just brought two patients back without triage.”

*

John’s night goes quickly, the complete opposite of the night before. Lots of cases, but nothing remotely interesting. Five o’clock rolls around, though, with its ensuing quiet and he and Laura are reduced to do crosswords on the internet to stay awake. The nurses stock the rooms and do some of the online training they’re required to keep up with for their hospital certifications. Not for the first time, John thinks that nurses are some of the hardest working people he has ever met.

The hospitalist stops by to admit an eighty-two year old woman with sepsis, and John bugs her until he gets a report on the trauma patient from last night.

“He’s fine,” she says shortly. He knows Simpson takes HIPAA seriously, but he hasn’t realized quite how seriously until she tells him to go check on the patient himself. Her mouth drops open when John asks what room he’s in.

“554,” she tells him. “And he’s still not conscious.”

“Right,” John says, able to keep at least some of the sarcasm out of his voice. “Thanks.”

*

When John gets to the floor, he logs in on one of the computers, reading the orders for the trauma patient. Dex put him on a morphine drip, and he has a blood thinner, and some antibiotics from O’Neill. Dex extubated a couple hours after the surgery, so it must have gone well. He didn’t put his suspicions about the patient’s consciousness on the record, though, so John logs off and peeks his head into the room. 

William looks asleep, but the moment John pushes the door open, he turns his head and opens his eyes. “You,” he says, and his voice is scratchy and soft, probably from the intubation.

“Yeah, me.” John steps into the room and lets the door drift closed. “How long have you been awake?” he asks, and the patient (nope, William’s not working for John either) stares at him.

“A while.”

“Dr. Dex figures you’ve been awake most of the day,” John says, and the patient is now glaring at him. “So, why pretend?”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

“I’m flattered that you’ve decided to talk to me, Jeff, but we – “

“Excuse me?” Annoyance is clear on the patient’s face, and John wonders, if he really was faking, how the hell he did it.

“Excuse you, what?” John smirks.

“Jeff? You think I look like a Jeff?” 

“No, actually. My second guess was William.” John chuckles at the outrage that crosses the patient’s face. “I have to call you something.”

“Fine,” he spits out. “You can call me 522-78-4733. And you can use that number to call me an Air Force advocate.”

“Okay, 522-78-4733,” John answers. “You don’t mind if I call you 522, do you?” A nurse comes in with a fresh IV bag and hangs it up. He writes down the number on a piece of paper and gives it to her as she leaves the room. “Call the Air Force and get an advocate for him, will you?” She looks disconcerted but takes the paper from him and leaves the room.

“I don’t know your name either, Doctor…” 

“Sheppard,” John provides. “Hope you don’t mind if I keep my social security number to myself.” John’s pager goes off, sparing 522 a response, and he’s pleasantly surprised to see that it’s not a trauma. “Mind if I use this?” he asks, picking up the phone next to 522’s bed and punching in the number for the ER before 522 can complain.

_“ER, this is Laura.”_

“Sheppard,” John says. “You paged.”

_”We were just worried about you. It’s been twenty-five minutes.”_

“Well, Jeff’s conscious.” John glances up to catch 522’s reaction to be called Jeff again, and he is treated to an eyeroll, followed by Jeff putting a hand to his forehead. _I_ bet _that gives you a hell of a headache,_ John thinks.

 _”That’s great,”_ Laura says, and he hears her muffle the handset as she passes the news on to someone.

“I’ll be right down,” John says, and the phone is halfway to hanging up before he hears Cadman’s squawk of protest.

_”No, wait!”_

He brings the receiver back up to his ear. “Yeah?”

_“Scott wants to talk to you. He’s in a room, but can I put you on hold for a sec?”_

John snorts. He can hardly say no. “Sure.” He turns to look at 522, who seems mighty amused at the fact that John is inconvenienced. He listens to the hold music, wondering who gets to choose the muzak for the hospital hold lines. 

He knows that Laura wouldn’t be put out if he hung up and either came down to the ER or waited for her next page, but having the phone to his ear lets him avoid what passes for conversation with a guy who won’t give more than his social security number for identification and pretends to be unconscious with everyone but him.

He turns his back to 522 and waits, rolling his eyes at the string quartet version of Avril Lavigne’s _I’m with You_. The muzak cycles through _Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds_ on marimba and _Like a Virgin_ done by a full orchestra before Scott picks up.

 _“John?”_ Scott asks.

“Yeah.”

_”Listen, we’re dead down here. You can head out if you want.”_

John knows that Scott’s doing him a favor, it can’t be that dead if he was stuck in a room for ten minutes while John was on hold. 

“Listen, I’m fine, I was about to head back down – “

 _”John.”_ Scott’s voice holds a warning, and he can’t make out Scott’s motives, but he knows something is going on and Scott is covering for him. _”Take the rest of the night off.”_

“Okay,” John says, slowly. “Thanks.” John jumps as Simpson barges into the room, and hurriedly says his goodbye and hangs up the phone.

“Good morning,” Simpson says brightly, and John plasters on his best charming smile. “I thought you said he was conscious,” she continues, breezing by him to poke 522.

“He…” John can’t finish the sentence as 522 is lying in bed, still as stone, and not responding to any of Simpson’s stimulations, not even the sternum rub, and John knows that hurts like hell. 

“It must have been a lucid interval,” Simpson says. “Damn.” She continues to poke and prod 522 and takes a look at the two lacerations that required stitches. John assists her with turning 522 over to check the contusions his back. “Do you know him?” she asks, and John doesn’t know how to answer. The whole situation is strange and he would be suspicious of himself if he was in her position.

“Uh,” John says and can’t force himself to come up with anything at all, truth or lies or anything.

“Got to you, eh?” she says. “It’s okay, we all have those patients.”

John frowned at her. He’s never had one of those patients, and as far as he can tell, none of his colleagues in the ER have either. That was one of the best reasons to go into Emergency Medicine – no follow up visits.

“He looks fine, except for the unconsciousness,” Simpson says. “Though if he’s having lucid intervals, I suppose I don’t need to worry too much.” She bustles around John and heads for the door. “Have a good day, Dr. Sheppard.”

“Thanks,” John says, and wipes his hands over his face. Before he breathe a sigh of relief that Simpson is gone, the door opens again, and an extremely professional woman in an Air Force uniform strides into the room, coolly conservative leather briefcase in her hand. John’s stunned. He can’t seem to do anything but stare.

She looks directly at 522 and smiles. “Major,” she says, and John whips his head around to see 522 awake and struggling to sit up. He automatically puts a hand on 522’s back to assist.

“Oh, thank god,” 522 says. “What took you so long?”

“I’m sorry about the delay, Major. It is a little early.” She sets the briefcase down on the bottom of his gurney and holds her hand out to 522. “Lieutenant Colonel Elizabeth Weir, at your service.” 

He half imagined that the Air Force laughing in the nurse’s ear when she called; he can’t quite put together the guy in the bed and the military.

“Thank you, Colonel,” 522 says, shaking her hand. “This is Dr. Sheppard, I believe one of the Emergency doctors at this institution.” 

John realizes that no one has given 522 a basic exam while he’s conscious, and long-ingrained habits take over.

“What day of the week is it?” he asks, and the shocked look on Colonel Weir’s face only lasts for a moment before her features smooth back into a condescending smile.

“Is that really necessary?” she asks, for all the world like she knows it isn’t. “I’d like to speak to the Major alone for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

“Actually, yes, it is necessary,” John answers, with more bite than was probably wise. “Seeing as how he’s been playing dead whenever any of his _real_ doctors are in the room.”

522 looks up at John, his face unreadable. “How long have I been out?”

“You got into the ER twenty-four hours ago. We don’t know how long you were unconscious before that.” John probably shouldn’t be giving 522 this information in front of the lawyer, but that’s 522’s call.

“How am I supposed to tell you what day of the week it is, then?” 522 asks, and _shit,_ John thinks, _I really should have come up with a better question out of the gate_.

“Unless I’ve been unconscious for a very long time, it’s 2007. George Walker Bush is the president, and the last bit of news I can remember is Mukasey making an ass of himself in the Judiciary Committee meetings.”

522 looks entirely too smug from someone who had a hole drilled in his head yesterday. John walks over and, at the last minute, shines his penlight in the patient’s eyes. 522 has better reflexes than he expected, though, and he grabs John’s penlight.

“That was just mean,” the patient says, and John tries to call him ‘Major’ in his head, but can’t seem to manage it. He takes the penlight back from 522.

“Your pupils aren’t sluggish, so that’s good news. Your basic memory seems to be in tact. Maybe now you could tell me what happened to you?” Halfway through the sentence, two cops shove their way into the room, without an escort or an explanation, and John throws his hands in the air. “It’s grand central station in here.”

The first cop holds up his badge. “I’m detective Caldwell, this is detective Ellis.” The second cop holds up _his_ badge. “We’ve been assigned to this case. And we’d be quite interested to hear what happened to you too, Mr., uh…”

“Major,” Elizabeth interjects, before 522 can do much more than shut his mouth with a snap. “You can call him by his rank. Major.”

John steps back, comfortable with letting this play out without him. He can answer a number of telling questions about this guy, and if 522 isn’t willing to give up the information, something tells him he shouldn’t either.

“Yes, Major,” Caldwell continues, as if he hasn’t been interrupted. “Who did this to you?”

522 crosses his arms over his chest and refuses to say anything. His lawyer doesn’t try to coerce him into answering, and John wonders what that means for 522. The detectives turn on her, asking what she knows. “Nothing more than you, Detective Caldwell. I only just got here myself. I would like a moment alone with my client, if that isn’t too much trouble.” She looks at John when she makes the request.

He looks over at 522 again, and 522 catches his glance, shaking his head imperceptibly from side to side. “You know what?” John says, with the authority born of years of playing god. “The patient needs rest, further testing, and shouldn’t have _any_ visitors right now.” He makes shooing motions with his hands, and tacks on a consolation prize. “Leave your cards at the desk. I’ll have someone give you a call when he is fit enough for interrogation.” 

Weir raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t protest, and Caldwell and Ellis leave ungraciously, but at least they leave. John can handle grumpy cops and put-out lawyers. He’s not so sure he can deal with a patient whose paranoia is actually warranted.

Once the room is empty, John turns around to see relief on 522’s face. It’s odd, how he can go from coldly blank to utter unselfconsciousness in the space of a breath. “You really do need more sleep. That hole in your head isn’t going to heal – “

“HOLE IN MY HEAD?” 522 yells, hands flying up to the dressing on his skull. “You put a hole in my head? Did you touch my brain? Oh my god, ask me a question. Wait, wait, Bernoulli’s constant is v squared over two plus gravitational potential energy per unit mass plus fluid enthalpy per unit mass.”

John blinks. That wasn’t the question he was planning on asking, but if this guy was going to go for aerodynamics, he could hold up his end of that conversation. “All right, for compressible fluids, but how about incompressible?”

“V squared over two plus… wait, what? You know Bernoulli’s constant?”

“I got my pilot’s license.” John shrugs. “I thought it was a good idea to know the physics.” 

522 slouches down the bed. “Figures. Wait, you’re not distracting me. Why is there a hole in my head?!” 522’s voice is near hysterical, and he starts pressing down hands go up to his skull to feel around. John steps in and bats them away. 

“Don’t touch it. You had a head bleed. We needed to drain off the blood to lower the intracranial pressure. And by we, I mean Dr. Carter, who’s a neurosurgeon, and really very good at these things.” John takes a look at 522’s IV and realizes that it’s closed off. “Wait, you’re not getting any morphine. You must be in a hell of a lot of pain, not to mention you’re not getting your blood thinners and antibiotics. That’s a bad thing.”

522 groans. “Don’t remind me. I need to be clear-headed, and the pain isn’t too bad when I’m distracted, and… you!” he says, pointing an accusing finger. “You’re too distracting. You should go away so I can figure out what the hell to do.”

“Let me turn on the drugs. You should be recovering, not trying to give yourself a heart attack.”

“No,” 522 says, but before anything else comes out, he melts back onto the bed, doing his best impression of unconsciousness. A moment later, the door opens and John turns around to berate whoever it is. He comes face to face with a doctor he doesn’t know. He looks down at the doctor’s ID tag, and in that half-second, he’s being pushed up against the wall with strong hands on his neck, the surprised “what?!” stuck in his throat. He tries prying the attacker’s hands off with no success and then he kicks, missing his attacker and everything else in the room. Suddenly, he is being crushed by his attacker’s entire body, but the hands around his throat slip, so he takes several breaths while he can. Some part of his brain understands that 522 is out of his bed and trying to help, so he makes another grab for the hands that were strangling him. 

The attacker backs up, wide eyes looking into John’s, and John can see the IV needle sticking out of his neck. Behind him, 522 flicks the morphine drip wide open, and squeezes the bag. Morphine works lightening quick, he knows this, but it’s still unbelievable, watching the fake doctor’s eyes roll back into his head. 

“Oh, shit,” he says, and he’s not sure if it’s for him, for 522, or for the bastard who’s slumped to the floor. His goes over to check the pulse of the guy whose handprints he’ll be carrying on his neck for the next week. It’s strong and slow, and John puts pressure on the IV site and pulls the IV out. This guy has had enough morphine to put him out for the day.

John rocks back and sits on his ass next to the unconscious guy, keeping pressure on the hole in his jugular. He looks up at 522, who looks surprisingly calm considering this turn of events.

“I assume he was here for you?” John says. “Because people with malpractice suits usually send lawyers, not assassins.”

522 shrugs. “Probably. I need to get out of here.” 522 starts opening all the drawers and doors and finds nothing more than a couple of extra bedpans and some threadbare blankets. “Can you get me some scrubs?” he asks. He looks uncomfortable, but continues. “I realize I shouldn’t ask you for anything, especially after… _this_ ,” he glances at the unconscious guy to John’s right, “but I don’t have any way to get out of the hospital without help.”

“You shouldn’t be leaving the hospital,” John argues, though he knows 522 won’t take his argument seriously. “You need to rest, to heal. You have a hole in your head, for crying out loud!”

522 looks even more stubborn at the mention of the hole in his head, and shakes his head at John’s suggestion. “More of these guys will be coming.”

“So we’ll call the police. They can provide protection.”

522 snorts. “These people have already killed me once,” he says.

John takes a deep breath. “I’ll go with you.”

522 looks incredulous. “That’s ridiculous. I can’t be responsible for you. I can barely take care of myself at the moment.”

“Exactly,” John says, exasperated. “You can’t take care of yourself, and guess what? _I’m a doctor._ ” Before 522 can complain any more, John pushes the argument home. “It’s my job to save your life. Besides, I already owe you one.” He brings a hand up to the bruises on his neck, tiny black holes of throbbing pain. 

522 closes his mouth, something that John has the impression is a long-ingrained habit of the military, and not at all his nature.

John takes one of the extra blankets and covers the slowly oozing wound on the assassin, and 522 ties his ankles and arms together with two other blankets. “Okay,” John says. “Time to go. Climb in bed.”

“What?” 522 asks, and John glares.

“I’m going to get us out of here,” John says, annoyed. “Get on the damn cart and lay down.”

522 doesn’t say anything else, and John thanks the god for military training. He covers 522 with a blanket and whispers _unconscious_. 522 plays possum and John pushes the cart into the hallway. He pushes the cart toward the elevator, acting as if he has every right in the world to take a patient for a joy ride. He stops briefly at the nurse’s station, both picking up the cards for Lt. Col. Elizabeth Weir, Det. S. Caldwell, and Det. A. Ellis, and to lay down a smooth lie about taking 522 down for another head MRI. The HUC on duty doesn’t question him, and smiles a little too brightly when she brushes his fingers handing him the business cards. He inclines his head graciously and says, “Thank you, ma’am,” and he’s pretty sure he can hear her heave a sigh the second he’s out of sight of the nurse’s station. 

“Well done, Valentino,” 522 mutters, his face completely impassive. 

“Thanks, but I prefer Rico Suave.”

John maneuvers the cart into the elevator and takes it down to MRI. This time of the morning, he can settle 522 in an unused room and leave to get him some scrubs. 522 looks a little peaked from the trip, and John tells him to stay put until he gets back with a couple of things.

*

John comes back with a pair of scrubs, one of his embroidered lab coats, and a gym bag full of prescription drug samples, expendable first aid supplies, and several prescription pads, all sitting in a wheelchair. 522 nods his approval and changes into the scrubs and lab coat, then sits almost quietly while John dresses the burr hole tightly and puts on his Ravens cap.

522 groans. “Football.”

“It’s the Ravens or wandering around with a big bandage visible on your head,” John says. “Which would you prefer?”

522 jams the cap down on his head, and John figures that had to hurt, but 522 isn’t complaining. “How about some ibuprofen, at least?” John offers.

“Once we’re out of here,” 522 says. “We really should have been gone by now.”

“That reminds me,” John says, and picks up the phone hanging on the wall next to the door. He presses zero and waits for a moment before saying “fifth floor desk, please.” He waits to be connected, though not long enough to recognize the song being butchered by an oboe and clavichord, and when he gets the coquettish HUC from earlier, he tells her to call Detective Caldwell, gives her his number, and tells her to get security on room 554 immediately. 

Getting out of the hospital is much easier than getting to John’s car, parked in the staff garage, which John knows for a fact is covered by four or five security cameras because he’s watched them in the security office when he’s been bored on night shift. In the end, John puts an arm around 522 and supports him, and 522 keeps his head down. 

He gets 522 settled into the passenger seat and drives passively out of the parking lot. Every action movie he’s ever seen comes to mind, and he wants nothing more than to screech his tires as he leaves the hospital. He knows better, and heads toward the inner harbor, where he can get on any highway 522 pleases.

“Where to?” John says, but 522 has passed out or fallen asleep. He checks 522’s pulse and once he’s assured that he’s still breathing, he climbs onto highway 83, heading for home.

*******

When John gets out of room five, Laura tells him that the trauma has a head bleed, and that she’s paged Dr. O’Neill. 

“Shit,” John says, and sits down at the radiology monitors to pull up the brain scans. There’s plenty of blood crowding the brain, but it’s not on the brain stem yet, so that’s good. O’Neill calls while he’s looking at the scans, and after Laura gives him the standard spiel, she looks back at him. He shakes his head. O’Neill can see the scans for himself when he gets in.

“He’ll be here in half an hour,” Laura says, and turns back to her game of Bejeweled. 

John figures he might as well get to room eight before O’Neill shows up, and logs in to read the chart. Laura said ‘suicidal’, but the triage says ‘apocalyptic’. He makes note of it on a clipboard and gets up to talk to the officer who brought him in.

“Officer Lorne,” John says, offering his hand. Evan shakes it and slaps him on the shoulder. “What have we got here?” John asks.

“He was wandering around Charles Center, spouting nonsense. Gave him a breathalyzer, but he was clean. He won’t stop talking, but I can’t get him to give me a name or address. He doesn’t have any ID, and he keeps telling me the world is going to end sometime next week.”

“Violent?” John asks, making notes on his clipboard. 

“Not so far,” Lorne answers. “You’re looking a little ragged, though, you want some coffee before you do this?”

John feels tired all the way down to his bones. “Yeah, I guess I do. I hate this part of the night shift. I’m fine right up until sunrise.”

Lorne walks behind the desk and pours two cups of coffee, sprinkling sugar into John’s and pouring two little creamers into his own. John turns away from him and looks at the guy in room eight. He’s yelling at the wall, gesturing grandly and pointing every other sentence. John sighs, rubbing his eyes, and when he looks up, Lorne is holding out a Dixie cup of coffee.

“Two sugars,” Lorne says. “Unless you decided to try the Atkins diet again.”

“I was reducing my refined sugar intake,” John says, and turns his head to look at the guy in room eight again. Larry. He definitely looks like a Larry.

*

When John finally extricates himself from Larry’s thrilling rendition of the apocalypse (including toxic toothpaste and giant skydiving spears of asparagus), he lets Lorne know it’ll be a psych admit and he can go back out and make the streets safe again.

He debates restraints and figures they’re unnecessary, and decides he’ll wait to get the alcohol and tox screen back before he gives any drugs. “Get security to cover room eight so Lorne can get out of here, and page psych on call when you get the results from the bloodwork,” John tells Laura, and she makes a note of it on one of her scratch pads.

As Lorne is about to walk out the door, it hits John that the trauma wasn’t reported to the police. “Wait,” John calls after Lorne, and Lorne turns around with a grin. 

“Yeah, doc?” 

“We got a trauma in a couple of hours ago,” John says, “and I think it’s probably something the police should be in on. Beating, dumped into the bay…”

“Holy crap,” Lorne says, and takes out his notebook. “Is he going to make it?”

“I don’t know,” John says, though he’s got a good feeling about Jeff. “Got the shit kicked out of him, though.”

“And dumped into the bay? So, attempted homicide, then?”

The words shock John. Why hadn’t he thought of this as a crime earlier? “Of course,” he says, more to himself than to Lorne. “Ronon and Teyla brought the guy in – he didn’t come by ambulance. Usually the cops know about this stuff _before_ we do.”

“Uh, okay,” Lorne says, and John forces his attention back to the situation at hand.

“So. What else do you need from me?” John asks. “Medically, he’s critical. He’s got an epidural hematoma, not too big, but they’re always bad news, a couple of cracked ribs, couple of broken fingers on his left hand.”

“You said Ronon and Teyla brought him in?” Lorne asks, taking down notes. 

“Yeah,” John answers.

“Where is he now?” Lorne asks, and John realizes he doesn’t know.

“He’s in trauma bay two, Evan,” Laura answers, cheerfully interrupting. “Got back from CT while you two were in room eight.” 

“Thanks,” John says. “We can take a look, if you like.”

“No thanks,” Lorne says, and John grins.

“I’m going to go check on him, unless you need anything else from me?” 

Lorne shakes his head, still writing in his notebook and John heads into the trauma room to check on the trauma. It’s just Biro now, cleaning, and keeping an eye on the patient. 

“Oh, Dr. Sheppard,” Biro says, “if you’re going to be here a while, do you mind if I get some supplies to restock?”

“Sure thing,” John says, and appraises Jeff while he sleeps not-so-peacefully. John wanders over to the gurney and puts a hand on Jeff’s arm. Jeff simultaneously stirs and calms at the touch. His twitchy unconscious movements stop, but he raises his hand from the blanket. It’s expectant, like [a flycatcher waiting for its prey]. John slides his hand down Jeff’s arm, stopping just short of linking their hands. 

The patient opens his eyes then, and the confusion from earlier is gone. This guy knows where he is, and what’s happened to him, and doesn’t seem to be particularly bothered by the tube in his throat except that he’s trying to talk around it. 

The patient gives John’s wrist a squeeze before he goes straight for the tube. John reaches out quickly, grabbing the guy’s hands before he can do something stupid. “Don’t,” he says, and the patient looks at him angrily. “I’ll get it out,” John says, to appease the guy’s anger because it’s definitely not the truth. “You’ll hurt yourself if you pull it yourself. Hell, I’ll hurt you if I pull it out while you’re conscious.”

That seems to settle him down, and luckily Biro comes back with an armful of supplies. Her eyes go wide as she sees that the patient is conscious and John speaks before she can say something that will spook the already jumpy patient.

“We’re going to extubate,” John says, and nods reassuringly at nurse Biro. He turns around and holds the patient’s gaze. “Biro’s going to administer some Narcan, to help you relax, so we don’t injure your throat or vocal cords,” John says, with his most charming delivery. The patient narrows his eyes at John, and John’s surprised that this guy knows he’s lying, but it doesn’t matter, because Biro really is a good nurse, and she gave the Narcan in the half a minute John had the patient distracted. The patient’s eyes slip closed, but not before giving John a dirty look.

“Thanks,” John says. 

“You’re welcome,” Biro says, looking at him slightly starry-eyed. “You’re really good at that. Some people don’t come off as trustworthy, but you definitely do.”

“Thanks,” John says again, and when he doesn’t comment further, Biro goes back to restocking the trauma room.

John’s thinking up a new name for Jeff (since it’s abundantly clear from his couple of moments of lucidity that he is _not_ a Jeff) when O’Neill comes in.

“So,” Jack says, in the old-guard authoritarian voice that John hates, “we’re going to have to put a hole in his skull.”

“Looks like it,” John says, “unless you’ve got a better idea.”

“Anything I should know?” Jack asks, and John has a knee-jerk reaction to keep the moment of consciousness to himself.

“He had a lucid interval a couple of minutes ago. Went straight for the breathing tube.”

Jack nods, frowning. “That’s a good sign.”

“I gave him some more Narcan, so he’s down for a little while.” At least, John thinks so. He really shouldn’t have been conscious considering he already had Narcan in his system from the intubation process. “You going to do the procedure in the ER?”

“No,” Jack says, and John nods. It’s a good call. “Laura’s calling in the surgery team. It’s not progressing too quickly, and I’d like to give him a little more time to get his temperature up those last couple of degrees. Don’t want to risk clots.”

John hums his agreement. O’Neill looks the patient over, and John debates a new name for him. William, he decides. John can imagine this guy as a Billy when he was a kid.

********

 _Damn, I’m thirsty_ , Rodney thinks. He blinks his eyes open, expecting to throw his legs over the side of the bed and walk down to the kitchen for a glass of water. Or, if he’s honest with himself, shuffle into the bathroom and drink from the faucet. Instead, he opens his eyes and his head _screams_ at him. He’s never heard a part of his body complain so loudly before, not even when he felt his throat closing up with the anaphylactic shock because of one errant pinch of lemon zest.

He closes his eyes, and that helps the ache some, though not nearly enough, and he raises his hands to feel his head. His arms complain, both in the general ‘we haven’t been used recently’ sense and in the ‘we have bruises on our bruises’ sense. He cracks one eye open to look at his arm up close and sees mottled purple, green, and yellow blotches up and down the forearm he’s holding up approximately three inches from his nose. 

He puts his arm back down and takes a deep breath. Damn it, his ribs hurt too. A couple of sore patches of skin on his chest – burns? Something pushes its way to the surface then, he was on a bridge… He shoves it back down and decides to finish the assessment of his injuries. Clearly he isn’t dead, so how bad can it be?

Cast on his left hand. That can’t be good. But at least it’s his _left_ hand. Wiggling of the toes tells him that his legs are also battered but not broken, and a grin at how pathetic he is tells him he’s got stitches on his cheek. Christ, he must look like hell.

Still, his head hurts the worst, so he slowly lifts his right hand and his eyes open in shock when he realizes his head has been shaved. There’s a prickly growth of, what, a couple of days? A week?. Then his head screams again, and he closes his eyes and clenches them shut against the wailing. Okay, okay, eyes shut, got it. His hand is shaking now, but he lifts it toward his skull. The shaved head gives way to bandages, and he presses down on them. Ow, ow, fuck, _ow_! Okay, so that’s what hurts. 

He breathes some more, feeling the depth of his injuries and wondering how much of the pain drugs might be suppressing He laughs bitterly at the thought. The door swishes open, and he cracks an eye to see who it is. A nurse. Maybe. She looks entirely too young to be a nurse. Maybe she’s a… volunteer. A candy-striper. Do they still have those?

“Oh!” she practically shouts, clapping a hand over her mouth. “You’re awake.”

 _Way to state the obvious,_ Rodney thinks, tamping down on his natural instinct to snipe. He clears his throat, sure that he’s going to croak like a frog. “I’m thirsty,” he says, and while it’s soft and a little rough, it’s his voice, calm and clear. He breathes a sigh of relief and his ribs protest.

“What drugs am I on?” he asks, and the too-young-to-be-a-nurse freezes.

“I… I don’t know,” she says. “I can bring in your nurse to tell you, and… and the doctor should probably be notified that you’re awake…”

Rodney takes another deep breath, swallowing his exasperation. “Yes, of course.” _Bring on the idiot parade_ , he thinks.

“I’ll get you some water, too,” she says, and Rodney appreciates the gesture, though he knows damn well he won’t get a drop until the doctor says okay.

“Turn the lights off,” Rodney says, not realizing until his demand is out that he should have made it a request. “Please,” he adds, and she nods at him, still wary around the eyes, like he might bite. She turns out the lights and leaves the room, though, so Rodney counts that as a win.

He closes his eyes and breathes, not so deeply that his ribs complain, but evenly. Two seconds in, two seconds out. He repeats this three times before training his mind on his last memory. Riding in a car, two solid bodies on either side of him, his hand was aching already at that point and he remembers the slow drip of blood down his cheek, like [tears [the caress of a ].]

The cars stop and he’s hauled out, he can smell the water, hear it, they’re on a bridge and he can see the light from the streetlamps through the blindfold. It takes several punches before he falls to the ground, but once he’s down the kicking starts, and then everything goes black.

Rodney has no idea how he got here, or where here even is. There’s nothing identifying on anything in the room, even the phone. He debates calling the operator, but before he can lift the phone, the door opens and a frighteningly large ape in a lab coat enters the room.

“Hi,” he says, with an oddly subdued voice. “I’m Dr. Dex.” As he gets closer, Rodney can see the UMMC stitching on his lab coat, right above the ‘Dr. Ronon Dex’. _What the hell kind of name is Ronon?_ Rodney thinks. _And what’s with the dreadlocks?_. 

“You’re a lucky to be alive,” the doctor says, and a chill goes through Rodney like cold rain sheeting down a windshield. The doctor pretends not to notice, and Rodney think that maybe the dreadlocks aren’t quite as unprofessional as he first thought.

“I need to ask you some questions to see how your brain is working,” Dr. Dex says, as matter-of-factly as [telling Rodney the weather.] 

“What did you do to my brain?” Rodney asks, and he can’t keep the panic out of his voice. His right hand flies to the bandages, though Dr. Dex gently intercepts him before he can press on them again.

“You had a head bleed,” the doctor says, and Rodney can feel his face go cold as the blood drains from it. “We had to drill a hole and get some of the blood out before it crushed your brain, causing brain damage and ultimately killing you.”

Rodney’s mind is like a hamster running on a wheel, equations and constants and the first thirty digits of Pi running through his head along with an ostinato of _oh my god oh my god oh my god_. He doesn’t seem to have lost anything, he can come up with every equation he asks himself before he even finishes thinking about it. When he’s satisfied that he doesn’t have brain damage, he remembers that the doctor is still in the room. He looks up and Dr. Dex smiles down at him, as if he knows exactly what Rodney was doing. It’s unnerving.

“Ready?” the doctor asks, and Rodney nods curtly.

“What year is it?”

“2007.”

“Who is president?” 

Rodney snorts. “George Walker Bush.”

“What’s the last thing you remember on the news?”

“Mukasey making an ass of himself in front of the Judiciary Committee.”

“Spell February.”

“F-E-B-R-U-A-R-Y. And it’s pronounced February, not Febuary.” Rodney scowls when the doctor grins at him. 

“I did that on purpose,” the doc tells him, and Rodney’s not certain he believes it, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter. “Can you remember the last thing that happened to you before you woke up here?”

Rodney gulps a breath in surprise, but it’s a reasonable question. “I was beaten until I blacked out,” he says, the derision in his voice dripping off the words like acid. “Kicked,” he adds, as if it’s really necessary.

The doctor nods, his expression carefully neutral. Rodney takes a deep breath and waits for the follow up questions that are likely to be a lot more painful.

“Do you know who did this to you?” Dr. Dex asks, and Rodney remembers _why_ and he’s feeling nauseous right alongside the glaring headache and dull throbbing in his ribs.

“I need to leave,” he says.

Dr. Dex grins at that, and the glaringly white teeth are a surprise. “You have a hole in your head,” he points out.

“People are trying to kill me.”

“They succeeded,” the doctor says, and the itchy patches of skin on his chest suddenly make sense. 

“I died.” Rodney blinks. “I… died.” The doc nods, not smiling anymore. “I don’t remember a white light or angels or… well, let’s admit it, there’d probably be demons and flames, that sort of thing, but there wasn’t any of that, either.”

Dr. Dex laughs, a great big peal of laughter, and Rodney chuckles. 

“How about your name?” Dr. Dex asked. 

“What about it?” Rodney asks. 

“Do you remember it?”

“Of course,” Rodney says, sneering. “Who doesn’t remember their name?”

“Amnesiacs. People with holes in their head.”

“Touché,” Rodney says.

“So what is your name?” the doctor asks, and something niggles at the back of Rodney’s mind. 

“David Flockhart.”

“How old are you, David?” Dr. Dex asks, and Rodney shuts his eyes and takes three deep breaths. These people don’t know his name. 

“Thirty-nine.”

“That’s not really your name,” the doc says, and Rodney would give him points for being able to tell that Rodney was lying if Rodney didn’t know for a fact that he couldn’t lie to save his life. And, he laughs, this might be one of those cases.

“No,” Rodney says, since there’s no point in keeping up the charade. “But now I know that you don’t know my name either, and I’m not going to give it out.”

“That’s paranoid,” Dr. Dex says. “I could call for a psych consult.”

“It’s paranoid to want to keep my identity secret when I’m in the hospital because _people tried to kill me_?!”

“Touché,” the doctor says, and grins. “No more questions about identity. I bet the cops will want to know, though, and they might be slightly more persuasive.”

“I doubt it,” Rodney says, and the doc shrugs, indicating he’s not going to push the subject.

“Let me take a look at you, and then we can call it quits.” Dr. Dex pulls down the blanket and pulls up his nightgown, uncovering a slash across his thigh that has several stitches in it. Rodney has a bright flashback to the bridge, one of the thugs wearing cowboy boots that were wickedly pointed with metal on the tips. He sucks in a breath.

“Hurts?” Dr. Dex asks, and Rodney shakes his head. When he looks down again, he sees plastic tubing coming out from under the nightgown and he groans. 

“Can we please remove the catheter?” Rodney asks. “I think I’m perfectly capable of pissing on my own.”

Dr. Dex shakes his head, smiling. “We’ll see. Roll onto your side, please.” The doc’s hand guides him to roll onto his right hip, exposing his back to the doctor’s view. He tries not to think about the fact that his ass is hanging out of the stupid back-tying nightgowns they put on everyone in hospitals. The doc patently ignores Rodney’s ass, and doesn’t touch him except to pull on his shoulder gently to indicate he can turn back over, and then he grins the ridiculous grin with all the white teeth.

“And now for the real show,” Dr. Dex says, and puts a hand on Rodney’s shoulder. Oh god. He’s going to look at the hole in Rodney’s head. “Call for a nurse,” the doctor says, and Rodney looks around him for some way to do it. He finds a call button wrapped around the guardrail and presses it. Within two minutes a large woman in bright orange scrubs with salt and pepper hair and a bright smile comes in. 

“What can I do for you?” she asks, with a quick glance from Rodney to the doctor.

“We need to change his dressing,” the doctor says, and she bustles out, all business. It only takes a couple of minutes for her to gather all the necessary equipment and Rodney does his best not to fidget.

When she comes back, the bandage is carefully removed and set aside, and Rodney can feel cool air on his scalp. On his _brain_ he reminds himself, and suppresses a shiver. Dr. Dex pokes around a bit, tells him it’s healing nicely, and they take twenty minutes to rewrap his head, [which makes Rodney feel like an extra in a zombie movie.]

“Looks pretty good,” the doc says, and Rodney is glad to hear his brain is healing nicely, but he still feels like crap, and suddenly he’s very tired. His eyelids start to droop and he blinks hard to force them open. Dr. Dex laughs at him, but tells him that he should rest, that sleep is the best thing for him right now. 

Before the doc leaves, Rodney grabs his sleeve and mentions the catheter again. Dr. Dex nods at the nurse and she pushes Rodney back down against his pillows. He gives up his last shred of modesty and closes his eyes while the nurse deflates the balloon and removes the plastic tubing from his dick. 

He breathes a sigh of relief, and immediately needs to take a piss. He looks at his IV stand and wonders if he can maneuver to the bathroom. The nurse seems to anticipate this, however, and hands him a plastic jug. “Sorry,” she says, “but we’re still monitoring your output.”

“Of course,” Rodney says, and accepts the jug. “If you don’t mind?” he says, and shoos her out of the room with his plastic piss jug.

********

“Caldwell,” Abe calls from across the room. “The attempted homicide guy? He’s awake.”

Steve smiles. They’re up to their eyeballs in paperwork for two gang murders. “You up for a trip to the hospital?” he asks.

Abe grins. “Anything to get out from behind this desk.”

*

They stop by the emergency department to see if Dr. Sheppard is there, but he won’t be back until the night shift, so they make a note to stop by his apartment and go up to the fifth floor. The girl at the desk greets them with a friendly smile, interested but wary when they ask for the John Doe’s room. “Five fifty-four,” she says cheerfully, pointing down the hall. 

Abe thanks her, and they head into the room to find the John Doe asleep. “I thought they said he was conscious,” Abe says, and Steve shrugs. 

“Maybe he’s just sleeping. Think we can shake him?”

“Please don’t,” the guy says, cracking open an eye. “I have a bad enough headache as it is.”

“S’pose so,” Abe says, and Steve steps forward to question the guy. 

“What’s your name?” he asks. That should give them a place to start looking, Steve figures, since you don’t get beaten nearly to death for nothing.

“I’m not telling you,” the John Doe says, and Steve can feel his mouth drop open.

“Excuse me?” Abe says. “We’re the good guys.”

“We’re going to catch whoever did this to you,” Steve adds, though he knows the trail has gone cold enough on this case to make it pretty tough.

The guy chuckles, an oddly mirthless sound. “No, you’re not.”

“Not if you won’t help us,” Steve says, and Abe moves in behind him, trying to make their presence more intimidating. 

“I can only assume that the reason I’m still alive – besides pure unadulterated luck,” the guy explains, “is because my name and information wasn’t broadcast anywhere. If the people that did this to me had any reason to think I was still alive, they’d be here to finish the job within the hour.”

Abe and Steve both chuckle at the impromptu speech. Steve decides to change tacks. “Do you know Ronon Dex?”

The John Doe opens his mouth, then squints, then opens his mouth again. “Huh,” he says. He looks guarded around the eyes. “ _Doctor_ Ronon Dex?” he asks, and Steve laughs again. This guy’s hilarious. 

“Yes. I don’t think there’s a whole passel of Ronon Dexs around.”

The John Doe takes a deep breath and sighs it out, closing his eyes and putting his hand them. “He did my checkup when I first woke up.”

 _He doesn’t remember_ , Steve thinks, and then realizes, of course not, he was _dead_ , wasn’t he? “He fished you out of the bay,” Steve says, “brought you in to the ER, doing CPR the whole time.”

The guy’s mouth forms an ‘oh’ of surprise, and Steve thinks he might have seen a flash of relief in those blue eyes. “He didn’t tell me that.”

“I wonder why,” Steve says. “Why would a doctor withhold that type of information?” He’s baiting the John Doe, see if he can shake something loose, but it makes him close up even tighter.

“I’m tired. I was dead earlier, and I need all the sleep I can get to recover.” He closes his eyes and turns his face to the window. Steve’s never been summarily dismissed with quite so much obstinance before.

“If you think of anything,” Steve says, leaving a card by the bedside table, “including _your name_ , give us a call.”

The John Doe doesn’t acknowledge the statement, and Steve shakes his head as he follows Abe back out into the corridor.

*

“What do you make of that?” Abe asks, and Steve shrugs.

“Paranoid?”

“He did _die_ ,” Abe points out. “And I don’t think he gave himself those bruises.”

“True. But look at him. What big name players would be interested in him?” Steve can’t figure out who could possibly care enough about this guy to want him dead.

“We could make a sweep of that doctor’s boat,” Abe says. “Don’t know what there would be to find, but… to be thorough?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, because something about this case is nagging at him.

********

Rodney waits for a full half hour after the detectives leave before he calls for a nurse. The young candy-striper girl comes in. She looks less frightened now, and he tries smiling at her. “I need a piece of paper and a pen,” Rodney says, and she grins and bobs out of the room.

When she returns, he makes her wait, writing down his social security number, the phone number for his [human resources contact], and the words ‘Air Force advocate’ on a piece of paper. “Can you do that for me, please?” Rodney asks, and when the candy-striper smiles and says “Sure thing, sir,” he’s never felt so old in his life.

*

It’s been a long time since basic training, but Rodney likes to think that he hasn’t completely let his instincts slip. He might have been sleeping when he feels the door open, or he might have been thinking in that place where all the good stuff is, but he hears the soft whoosh of the plastic skirting on the door brushing the floor, and he’s wide awake, all attention focused on seeing through mostly closed eyes and hearing every footstep of the person in the room. It’s not Dr. Dex, it’s definitely not the candy-striper, and he’s pretty sure it’s not one of the cops, either.

Adrenaline kicks in, and Rodney can feel the pain lift, and feel the sharp edge of his thoughts as he races through all the possibilities of who would be in his room unannounced. Time slows down, and he can hear the edges around sounds, so when the first rough pop of a plastic cap sounds, Rodney opens his eyes and throws his arm out, grabbing his IV stand and ramming it into the stranger to buy time. The guy is in a lab coat; he could be a doctor, but somehow Rodney trusts that his instincts are right. 

The syringe falls to the floor and Rodney kicks it under the gurney. The attacker (in black scrubs under his lab coat - _ninja doctor!_ Rodney thinks) throws a punch which Rodney ducks easily, and steps in so he’s close enough to go for Rodney’s torso, which, in Rodney’s state, is probably his best bet.

Rodney gets the flare of an idea and reacts, not stopping to think. He rips the tape off his IV and pulls it out, letting the utter unlikeliness of the move give the attacker pause. He’s glad of the adrenaline, because he can see this guy’s pulse right at the top of his clavicle, and Rodney sticks his IV in, one quick jab to the neck. 

The ninja doctor’s eyes go wide, and before he can try to pull it out, Rodney flicks the plastic cap up on the IV line to let the drip go wide open, and he squeezes the morphine bag. It kicks in almost immediately, and his attacker collapses to the ground in a heap.

 _Fuck_ , Rodney thinks.

(This was from a version where I'd made Rodney some awesome super-soldier genius.)

********

“Busy?” John asks, peering over Ronon’s shoulder at his list of patients.

“Not too bad,” Ronon says. “What’re you thinking?”

It’s four a.m. and Simpson’s let him off early, she figures she owes him, which is fine by John, except that he has to work two more nights before he’s off, and he doesn’t want to screw up his sleep schedule by going to bed early.

“Run?” John asks, and Ronon frowns at him.

“You know I can’t leave the hospital,” he says, and John grins.

“We can run the perimeter,” he says, rocking back on his heels and waiting to be congratulated on his clever idea. 

“And if I get paged?” Ronon says. 

“Oh please,” John says, “like running with me makes you break a sweat.”

“Good point,” Ronon says. “Wait here, I’ll get my shoes.”

John hangs around the desk, doing his best to both be polite to and ignore the girl at the desk. He drums his fingers, impatient to get moving. He glances up as someone walked by, and does a doubletake when he sees a white turban. The only local doctor he knows that wears a turban is Dr. Singh, but this guy is too pale to be him. He‘s also moving a little jerkily, as if he isn’t sure where he’s going or is having trouble getting there. John steps into the hallway, intending to greet him and offer help.

“Excuse me,” the doctor says, eyes trained on the floor. John can’t imagine what culture this guy is from, but it’s definitely not American.

“Hey,” John says, sticking his hand out. “I was just wondering if you needed a little help, you’re –“ when the other doctor looks up at John, he nearly goes into shock. It’s his trauma patient from last week. He didn’t even know the guy had pulled through. “What the hell?” John says, grabbing the patient’s arm. “You need to get back in bed.”

“Let go of me,” the patient says, pulling his arm out of John’s grip. “I need to get out of here. People are trying to kill me.”

“Right,” John says, “and I’m the president of the United States.”

“You don’t believe me?” the patient says, an obstinate look in his eyes. “Go into my room. Five fifty-four.”

“All right,” John says, figuring the best way to deal with this is to sound reasonable. “But you come with me.”

The guy looks like he’s going to refuse, but he must decide against it because he nods. “Fine, but I’ll have you know that I’m perfectly sane and not schizophrenic or delusional or whatever passes for mentally ill in this hospital.”

He continues to grumble as they make their way slowly down the corridor, and John catches a few things, complaints about Baltimore, and something about wishing he was at Johns Hopkins.

“Oh right,” John says, and he can’t keep the sneer out of his voice. “If you’re dying of cancer. Since you were, I don’t know, _beaten to death_ , you’re probably lucky that you came to the only Level One Trauma Center in Baltimore.”

That shuts the guy up for a little while, and John can nearly hear the wheels turning as he pieces things together. “You?” he asks, and John chuckles.

“Work in the ER. Saved your life, you ungrateful bastard, and I’m seriously considering taking back the offer.”

They reach the room before the patient can complain any more, and John opens the door. There’s someone in the lone bed, but something about him looks wrong. The patient hasn’t entered the room, and John’s torn between checking the guy in the bed and keeping trauma guy in his sights. 

“Get in here,” John says, roughly grabbing his arm and pulling him into the room. 

The guy in the bed is wearing one of the hospital nightgowns. _Maybe he’s just a patient_ , John thinks, until a look at his arms makes John change his mind. He’s restrained, but with strips of sheet, not the typical soft restraints the staff uses. He’s also unconscious and breathing extremely slowly.

John points to the guest chair. “Sit,” John says, and the patient takes a seat, though he keeps glancing at the door, and his forehead is creased with worry.

“They’ll send someone else after me when they realize he didn’t succeed,” trauma guy says, and John nods. He’ll think about that once he’s sure the guy restrained in the bed isn’t dying. He realizes now what’s wrong with this picture, and can’t believe he didn’t see it sooner. The IV needle is stuck into the crook of his inner arm, but nowhere near the vein. A pocket of – John looks up at the meds – saline and morphine is creating a squishy lump on his bicep. John pulls out the IV and lets it go. He checks the guy’s breathing and when John’s satisfied he’s in no danger, he turns to the trauma guy again.

“Where did you think you were going?” John asks, and the patient shrugs. 

“For starters, I was getting out of here.”

“I can’t let you leave the hospital,” John says, and all the worry leaves the trauma guy’s face as stubbornness sets in. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, and John laughs at that, right up until the patient grabs one arm and twists it up behind his back. He didn’t look that fast, or that strong. 

“Okay,” John says, pouring on the charm, “I didn’t really expect that.” The trauma guy is silent, so John figures he’s at least listening. “You have a hole in your head,” John says, “you need medical care.”

*******

"Wait, so what do you do for a living?" John asks, pulling off onto 495. He'd already missed the airport exit, but McKay'd been talking so John's just hoping he didn't notice. 

"I'm a forensic accountant," McKay says, glancing over at John. 

John hasn't got a clue what that combination of words could possibly mean, so he just shrugs. "Go on."

*

McKay's brooding now, which probably isn't good for him, but at least he's quiet and John can think. For someone with a head injury, McKay talks remarkably fast.

McKay falls asleep staring out the window, giving John a little time to think. He's already decided to go to Teyla's; he trusts her and she's calm and confident. She can keep him from freaking out and help them figure out what to do. She's a good hour away in DC, so he's glad McKay's asleep, at least until he starts moaning. It's probably the painkillers wearing off; he has no idea what McKay was admitted on, but there's no way to get something that strong without raising red flags.

********


End file.
